


Beyond Redemption

by barush



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barush/pseuds/barush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hate this day so much. It comes back every year to haunt you as the worst nightmare, no matter what you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Redemption

You fucking hate this day. Every year it comes back to haunt you and you hate it. You’d do anything to get rid of it. Anything, really. You’d take all the calendars in the world and cut this date out of them with your own hands. Hell, you’d cut out the whole month, nobody would miss it anyway. Just fewer days of working from nine to blind and falling asleep totally beat. All the normal people would appreciate it, you’re sure of it.

Only, you can’t. As much as you’d want it gone, this day will always be here, once a year, returning to mock you and intimidate you, as the worst nightmare.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips when you remember that once you actually loved it. You used to wait anxiously and impatiently for this date to appear on the calendar in the hall, the number circled in a thick red marker, its arrival anticipated for a long time and properly welcomed. You’ve been such a fool, you know now. How could anyone love this particular date? And still, there are people all around the world who celebrate it with grace. Hypocrites.

This year, the day starts as any other. It’s Saturday, so you don’t have to take a day off. At least something positive. You deliberately ignore the messages on your answering machine while passing it on your way to the kitchen. However, you can’t help yourself but look at the display from the corner of your eye. It reads “7”. Shame it’s not your lucky number.

The coffee is black and strong and too hot. You drink it in three huge gulps anyways, not registering the burning pain on your tongue. You need it to wake you up so you can face this day properly and without too much necessary emotions.

This point is where the day starts to differ from your normal Saturdays. You delete the messages on your way out without listening to them and head to the nearest florist’s, which happens to be on the corner of your street.

No, you don’t need to wrap them up, you assure the girl behind the counter for what must be the hundredth time. She gives you two crimson red roses with a shaky smile and takes the money from you. You look at the flowers with disgust and resentment, while going back to your place.

When you’re back in the kitchen, you throw the roses carelessly on the table, along with your keys and wallet. Okay, so that was the easy part. Until now, you’ve been calm and collected, but you feel your knees becoming jelly-like, while you’re slowly making your way up the stairs.

The room has been abandoned for some time now. It’s been a whole year since your feet crossed the threshold, yet it’s been three since anything was moved in there. Except for the box under the bed.

Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. You wonder if you are going to live until the day when the dust cover is so thick that you won’t be able to recognize anything in the room. Because that way, a mere look around wouldn’t evoke such a mixture of strong feelings and emotions and you wouldn’t have to grab the box and run away as quickly as possible, with tears threatening to spill out of your eyes.

Your hands are shaking. The ancient shoebox is lying on the coffee table in front of you, daring you to open it. You’d swear you hear it laughing at you.

After an endless moment of staring at the offending object, your trembling hands slowly reach out and take off the paper lid. In that instant you know, you don’t have the guts to do it yet. Cold metal’s glaring at you with its blistering eyes, its teeth bared. Same as the box, it’s daring you to touch it. To use it. It’s tempting, your fingers are twitching to grab it and just get the hell over with it. Yet, deep down, you know you’re a damn coward.

It makes you want to cry. Want to scream your lungs out. Want to weep. Because you hated the world together and you should have left it together. Only, you’ve betrayed him. Bloody traitor you are.

As pointless as you know it is, you take out the metal object. It’s heavy in your hand. It’s even heavier in your mouth. It’d be pretty easy, but the finger won’t move an inch. Exactly as you’ve predicted. Carefully, you put it back into the box.

Instead, you take out a little shrunken flower. It’s so fragile that you’re afraid it might crumble on its own, without you doing any harm to it. You find it quite sad and depressing that once its petals were fresh and beautiful. Now they’re just dead. You’ve never understood why he used to like them dead so much. Now, you think, you might have an idea.

With one quick movement of your fingers, you tear off the flower from one of the fresh roses, bought just minutes ago, and put it into the place of its dead sister. It’ll be left to its fate there, in the dark corner of the shoebox, because it can’t serve your purposes while it’s still alive. You wonder what purpose you are fulfilling, during your borrowed time. Nothing comes to your mind.

In your world, “alive” doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a relative term. Alive, dead, all the same. You know that any second, any day, you could switch from living to dead and nothing would change. However, you’re afraid nobody’s going to do you this favor. It’s all in your hands. Your trembling, uncertain hands with nobody here to steady them.

You crave to get over with this part as quickly as possible. You detest physical pain. But it’s the least you can do now to punish yourself. To replace psychical pain by physical. Even the tiniest scratch brings an agony into your body, from reasons that remain hidden to you though. He was aware of that fact as well. Told you, you were strong enough, you could overcome the physical suffering. If not for him then for yourself. Turns out, he was wrong.

Your eyes are shut tightly when the green thorn penetrates your skin and sharp pain shots through your index finger. The tears you were keeping inside for so long are falling freely now, wetting your face and sliding down your neck. A deep red drop leaves your finger, falls onto the once white paper, and splashes a little. The color of the thick liquid is so vivid and beautiful, nothing like those two brown stains, already fading into nothingness. You can remember the pain those two brought you as if it was yesterday. Still, it was nothing compared to the pain you feel now, not only in the visible wound. You wonder how many of them will stain the letter before you finally gather enough courage to do what you were supposed to three years ago.

The paper starts to slowly turn into an ugly yellowish shade. The blue ink fades away more quickly than you’d like, in some places already unreadable due to the sorrowful tears erasing it. You could add those missing words in a heartbeat though, having read the note more than is considered healthy. You could recite it by heart even if you were woken up in the middle of the night. As long as you have its content etched in your mind, whatever happens, you know that once you’ve been truly loved and understood.

You had a similar letter as well. Never put it into use though. You hate yourself for it.

Although it’s still spring, the weather outside resembles autumn in many ways. Your favorite time of the year. The last remains of winter snow have faded away already to uncover a beautiful variety of colorful fallen leaves. Animals are slowly waking up from their undisturbed winter sleep to wander around without any real aim or destination. It’s not cold anymore, but the proper summer heat hasn’t started yet. You’re grateful it’s not raining, as it’s not unlikely to happen in spring. Today is perfect for a walk.

The black stone is covered with a rather large pile of dead leaves, which indicates no one has been here for a long time. You don’t wonder though. Three years is too long even for the better of friends, people tend to forget. Out of sight, out of mind, you smirk bitterly. Although you can’t tell for sure, you have a strange feeling that no one from his orthodox Christian family has been in this place more than once. No wonder either, given they think they’ve been nursing a black sheep in their cozy nest. And you? Well, it hurts too much.

As much as it stings your heart, you must give his family at least some credit though. They’ve chosen a nice place. Under a white birch with a white bench nearby for occasional visitors that never come.

You haven’t been walking for long, yet you accept the invitation of the white wood and sit down. Despite no rain, its surface is cold and wet, but you don’t even register it. Your mind is elsewhere, floating around; refusing to get back into your head because then you would have to think. Same old question would arouse; questions you know answers to but are too scared to admit it to yourself. Better, not think about it at all then.

The dead rose stands out on the black polished stone. Its color is faded due the year in the shoebox without any sun, but still, it creates a nice contrast. He would love it anyway.

It’s a kind of a peace offering from your side. You know nothing can erase your betrayal but you still hope that one day you’ll make up for it. Maybe even the next year, you think. Next year, your finger might actually move that necessary inch and redeem you. However, you won’t promise anything. In case, you’d break your promise again.

At last, you cast one final look at the shining black stone with a cheap golden writing etched to it. The ‘M’ in the beginning of his name starts to fade already and if you didn’t know what date was today you wouldn’t be probably able to tell as the golden paint has been washed away completely. Only, you know it too well. Finally, you turn on your heal and go away.

The oak door swings open with one swift movement to reveal a happy grin of your boyfriend. Every second you expect to hear the words, you’ve been dreading all day. The whole year, even.

“Happy birthday, Chester.”

It makes your ears bleed for this day is anything but. The smile on your face is fake, same as the feelings towards this man. You give him the rose anyway. He slowly retreats to the house to put in the cupboard, never to a vase. Brad likes dead flowers. It scares the shit out of you.

After an awkward accepting of presents, you’re lying on the couch, holding hands and watching a sappy romantic movie of Brad’s choice. Your tongue is burning. You ache to tell him the truth. You ache to tell him you don’t love him, he’s just a cheap substitute and a way to survive in your world full of self-pity. You desire to tell him about the shoebox under the bed in the room that has never been yours. You want to tell him that your time among the living is limited and his plans about a happily ever after might not work out. Not with you anyway. You want him to know all these things.

He smiles at you, love shining in his eyes, and squeezes your hand tightly. You open your mouth to scream your heart out but instead you gape at him as a fish gasping for air, no sound coming from your soul. That’s it. You smile back at him and nuzzle into his neck. You won’t let him know that if it wasn’t him in here with you, it would be anyone else and you’d feel the same.

The only person you’ve ever loved is gone and it’s your fault the two of you aren’t together. You’ve been too much of a coward.

The clock reads 11.59pm. You’re slowly starting to switch into your “ordinary life” mode, already forgetting all about today. For the next 365 days, it’ll stay like that. What will happen next? Who knows? You certainly don’t. As Brad squeezes your hand again, a lone tear makes its way down your face.

You fucking hate this day.


End file.
